


Two Candles

by fatcr0w



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A Happy story with a Happier ending, Alcohol, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, gratuitous bacon pancakes, mentions of the following - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3908311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatcr0w/pseuds/fatcr0w
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a couple days after the fact but that doesn't mean there’s no time to celebrate being one year older. Sam throws Steve a belated-birthday breakfast, since Hydra interrupted the official one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Candles

**Author's Note:**

> In which a good friend of mine on Tumblr brought up how much younger than Sam Steve actually is and then we discussed his possible shoe collection. Thanks for the idea!!

Steve woke on Sam’s couch with one sock off and the worst headache he’s had since after getting the serum. He was most definitely hungover thanks to the generosity of his good friend Thor, and was now crashing on his friend’s couch. He figured of all his new bad habits this one would probably never be broken. After all, the homeowner’s association was surprisingly efficient at keeping reporters out of the subdivision. It probably had something to do with Grandma Patterson’s close connection with the police department. He’d have to thank her one of these days. 

The hero, in all his glory gave a scratch to his stomach as he sat up, blinking blearily. Fresh from another one of now countless successful Avenger’s operations- and subsequent press conference/after parties- he was very literally hiding out on Sam’s couch from the only thing he really hated more than Hydra, rabid paparazzi.  They’d been camped out near his  _new_  Brooklyn town home and he remembered ordering the quinjet operator in what he supposed was a very Captain-like voice to just take them to the safe house in DC. Upon closer inspection of his memory bank he realized he’d just been mumbling and raising his finger while Thor had made sure they got inside in one piece.  

Steve managed to mentally pick through at least another five minutes of his foggy memory before he was fully upright, rubbing his eyes with a yawn against the light of mid-morning. He’d made it to the couch by sheer willpower, last he remembered Sam had very dramatically low-crawled his way under the table and enjoyed the softness of his shag rug. He wasn’t there any more, and his room door was open, so he supposed he’d survived the night. As he sniffed, clearing his sinuses, the smell of bacon turned his sluggish mind to happier thoughts. He drifted towards standing, still bleary. 

“Ah, so you deign to join us among the living?” Sam says jovially from across the bar, holding his spatula up in salute. It’s all a façade. Sam was not quite worthy of Asgardian libations but Tony’s version of an open bar did well enough on mere mortals.

“Only if you’re making those weird bacon dough cake things again, yes,” Steve replied, already stumbling towards the half bath to wash up. 

“Not my first choice of hangover food, but yes, there’s enough here to feed a one-dude army,” he held up the platter as Steve emerged, a little fresher for splashing water on his face.

“Well, not everyone is strong enough to just take a two finger shot of pickle juice in the morning with a vitamin and call it even,” Steve eyed the offending jar on the counter with a scowl. He didn’t get hungover that often, usually it required Asgardian presence, but that didn’t mean he wanted to witness the act.

“And here you’re supposed to be able to handle anything, ” Sam tossed right back, flipping the last set of bacon-cakes with a practiced shake of the pan as he knocked back his magic remedy. 

“Go on and sit down this has maybe 30 seconds before it’s ready.”

Steve entered the kitchen to find the table already set, juice and coffee already prepared. Just how long had Sam actually been up? It wasn’t dawn, but it wasn’t late either. He usually let Steve do the work, unless… 

He checked the date on his watch. July 7th…July….seventh. Well, that wasn’t a very big day at all.  

“Oh, and since you forgot,” Sam said as he placed the huge platter down on the table between them both. Precariously wedged between a few pads of dough and bacon were a pair of number candles happily blazing. Oh yea, his birthday had passed a few days ago when the mission was only a day underway. Evil organizations don’t give a fig for a national icon’s birthday celebrations, in fact, it’s a rather popular day for terrorist attempts on home soil. His birthday appearances had been blessedly cancelled in light of the fact that he was overseas punching neo-nazis in the face but the actual occasion had slipped his mind. 

Steve smiled initially, but furrowed his brows in confusion when the candles registered, “ Twenty eight? What happened to the other seventy?”

Sam raised his brow with a laugh, “You left those in the ice, don’t tell me you expected to have to blow out 98 candles on your -belated- birthday? You haven’t earned them”

Steve’s face hardened defensively. Sam was unphased, “Man, think about it. There’s a good reason most folks don’t say a baby is a year old when they’re born. They’re new, they might have been alive or whatever you believe while they’re in there, but they aren’t experiencing the world.  How’s all that age and wisdom gonna count when you weren’t around to blow out the candles?” 

Steve sat back, stunned as he stared into the firelight dancing atop the confetti covered candles. He’d been so busy trying to live up to everyone’s expectations and here it was, out in the open where he never wanted it. He was just a kid when he joined up, still a kid when he went down into that icy grave. If he’d died like so many others, it would have been simpler. He wouldn’t have to reconcile the fact that everyone looked at him like he was a grandfather when he barely felt like a grandson. 

That is, everyone but Sam. His blue eyes flicked up at brown, thankful and sheepish as he smiled, blowing out the candles with a gentle breath, “I guess I never thought about it like that, ya know? Back then I was a Captain with super strength. Folks looked up to me, sure, but I still got orders, still got put in my place, still was treated like almost all the other young bucks when I got too cocky.”

Steve sighed fondly, remembering the very real threat of court martial for going AWOL behind enemy lines, “ But now… now…”

“Everyone forgets that you never saw your war end, and you woke up in a new one, with rules and dangers most folks can’t even comprehend?”

Steve hung his head, the acrid smell of burnt candle wax stinging his nose. Sam shrugged, plucking the candles off the pancakes and shoving the platter closer, “Well, you’re Steve for the next couple of hours at least.”

The young man in question brightened as a warm bottle of syrup was produced, “And as far as I can tell, Steve is younger than me, has seen way more action than most generals of our time, and maybe, just maybe, deserves to have a solid 50 stack of bacon cakes on his twenty-eighth birthday, before he gets old and over the hill like yours truly.” 

“Over the hill?” Steve laughed, Sam looked the same age as he did, a bit younger on the rare occasion that he shaved off his goatee. But Sam just shook his head, laughing as he took his own share of bacon-cakes, “Let’s just say I’m a bit closer to Tony’s age than I am to yours, Kid”

Steve sputtered good-naturedly, picking up a cake and biting into it. It was just the amazing kind of processed junk that he loved about the future, high calorie, dubious nutrition, glorious taste, and all before 10 AM. Maybe he moaned a little, it was three days from his birthday and he could moan if he wants to…And eat with the decorum of a toddler while hungover in yesterday’s party duds. It was something he hadn’t had the chance to do, but probably would have, given the chance. All he’d ever wanted was to be a normal young guy, live fast and loud, maybe settle down when he was ‘over the hill’ himself. But now he’s 28 going on 99 and this, this ridiculous, pounding headache and bilious taste in his mouth was some sort of twisted luxury. 

_What the hell._

Steve fisted another pancake and dipped it in syrup, taking a joyous bite, “Thanks for remembering, Sam”

Sam chuckled around his own mouthful of breakfast, having gone for the eggs first, It was nigh impossible to forget, what with 24-7 news coverage nation wide for the month prior to “America’s Birthday”. But Sam knew he didn’t really mean the day. 

“Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t even seen your present.”

“What?” Steve muffled around a rather obscene bit of dough. He had no need for presents. The fan mail sent on his birthday alone was enough to warrant a wing of the new Avenger’s facility for processing. 

Sam only shook his head, cramming a pancake stick into his mouth as he leaned back towards a low cabinet and pulled out a neatly wrapped box. 

Steve’s eyes traveled along the line of burnished skin that peeked out from beneath his undershirt as he made the move. It took on an apricot highlight when daylight struck it, and he wondered what paint could capture that. His eyes snapped back to his plate when Sam sat back up with a clatter and a smile, a large box terribly wrapped in the Sunday comics with lots of glitter and stickers.

“Aaliyah helped…” Sam caught the red tinge of his ears, “Aw man you don’t have to blush about it! It’s not that big of a deal, just open it…But I have to record this for Aaliyah and Jody to watch.”

He brought out his phone and turned on the camera for demonstration, “Mr. Rogers is opening the gift you guys helped pick!” he told the phone

Steve grabbed for the box, nodding as he picked up happy to deflect the discussion about his red ears and possibly peach-pink face. Despite the very original wrapping scheme, he couldn’t bring himself to just rip it to shreds. He carefully separated the tape and put it aside. 

Inside was a bright orange box with a now familiar check-mark on them. Steve gave the man across the table a dubious squint, “Nike’s.” he said accusingly. There had already been one memorable _discussion_  about the extolled virtue of Air Jordans.

_That much for a pair of shoes that you can’t even get dirty? I don’t get it Sam, I just don’t get it._

There had been a subsequent 45 minute tour of Sam’s modest but entirely too well thought out shoe collection, wherein he laid out the essentials of everything from a shower sandal to a set of J.FitzPatrick loafers for the occasional gala. 

At the amused betrayal in his eyes Sam gave him a wink, still holding up the camera “What, I’m 100% sure I saw you making puppy dog eyes at them when you passed the display last month.”

Steve had done no such thing… that he could remember. He was  _not_  one of those  _hipstarts_  or whatever Nat called them. If he was into vintage before it was cool that’s because he was there dammit. 

“Oh just open it! I’m running out of time on here!” Sam called out, pointing to the phone. 

Steve made a big show of opening the box and removing all the tissue, only to make a face of true surprise. He pulled out a pair of classic Chuck Taylors in deep blue complete with the famous All-Star logo on the sides. 

Steve looked up at him, flabbergasted. These were exactly what he’d wanted. He’d gotten his gifts from the rest of the Avengers the day before. They were well thought out, meaningful, interesting , expensive-and in the case of Thor-a little bit terrifying. He liked them, sure, but they were all really great gifts for Captain America. These little rubber-soled shoes though… They were a great gift for Steve. 

He was always a baseball kid growing up, but he admitted that Chucks had their appeal. He’d even tried them on in the store on one of his better days, after wiggling his toes under the Foot-o-scope. But as sick as he always was, as poor as he always was. There was no reason for them. He couldn’t run anywhere, he couldn’t afford something as frivolous as shoes just for running in. Perhaps he brought that back with him, 70 years into the future with back-pay and bonds in the millions but he still had trouble reconciling the need to have more than his dress uniform, his BDUs, enough clothes for a week of laundry, and shoes that went with everything. It was all he needed, but not all he wanted. It was still so hard for that boy who grew up smack dab in the middle of the depression to admit that maybe, just maybe, he could buy something ostensibly useless, just because he wanted to. 

But then Sam just went and did it for him, and made really a ridiculous amount of food and threw him a 9 AM birthday party because it’s more than the war that Steve’s hung up on. It’s  _this_  war and _that_  war and 70 years of the world he’s missed and the rough, starving, dirt-stained twenty-odd years that he lived before he even saw a man killed on the battlefield. His hands gripped the tissue, crinkling it to mush. How could it hurt to be so happy for once?

He looked up at Sam, who’d turned the phone to talk to it, not showing his lost and nearly broken face to the kids. “I think he likes them,” he grinned, “Good choice team!” he gave a thumbs up and ended the recording, moving his thumb deftly to send.

“Sam… I-" 

The other man gave him a cheeky grin, his mouth still full of bacon-cake, "Happy belated birthday man.”

“But Sam I… I don’t-”

“Mine’s in September, thank me then,” Sam’s hungover grin gave nothing away as he demolished another bacon stick" But I prefer something more appropriate for an old man like me. Like a really big bottle of Patrón. I mean really big.“

Steve cackled at that, forgetting his worries for a minute as a better memory popped into his head. He very clearly remembered Pepper’s charity gala after-party  where Sam and Rhodey both had sworn off tequila entirely after a test of worthiness involving Thor’s hammer, the Avengers tower elevator, a foreign dignitary, and a pair of coconuts. 

The shoes were put to the side, and Steve went back to stuffing his face with food, the two of them laughing and cackling as the events of last night slowly came back in the form of embarrassing picture texts and the daily headlines. 

In the end, even a super-soldier and a half were no match for the massive party slab of food, and the rest was put away. Steve clapped his hand on Sam’s smaller shoulder as he drifted over to help dry dishes, "Thanks man, really. I mean it. I don’t thank you enough for just jumping in when I’m too chicken shit to do it myself”

Sam clicked his teeth with a laugh, “Nah, it’s not that complex” Sam said as he handed him a plate, “You and me, we’re friends, bros, whatever. I’m just lookin’ out for me and mine. What is it those kids say now? ’ _Squad Rolls_ ’?”

“Christ Sam, you are old.”

Sam feigned offense at the statement, “Kids these days, no respect for the elders. For that young man, you can scrub the bacon grease. I’ve still got to clean up and go drop off some paperwork anyway.”

Steve laughed at him but took the scrubber and set to task as Sam went to throw on a respectable shirt. Steve was just finishing up the glassware when Sam called offhandedly from the front door. 

“Oh yea, by the way when’s Bucky’s birthday? I figure we can get him something, since he’s back in town a while. Even if it’s a bit belated, I think he could use a new hoodie and some WD-40.”

Steve had the good grace to at least put the glass down and not shatter it in surprise.

“Did I forget to tell you? I must have been  _so_  wasted last night. Happy birthday man!" 

With no other information. Sam had slipped out the front door leaving Steve staring dumbstruck, mouth ajar, with soap up to his elbows.

Happy birthday indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, MCU Sam is 37! He's a year closer to Tony's age than Steve's.


End file.
